Visit at the Wrong Hour

His hand lowered slowly from his side. The faint echo of the move slipped through the corridor like a breath. His voice followed—softer this time, stripped of the earlier sharpness, replaced by a quiet curiosity that carried far more weight than suspicion ever could.

"Tell me… what are you doing here?"

The question settled in the dim hall, suspended between flickering torchlight and the controlled stillness of his stance. Victor didn't tense; he didn't narrow his eyes. He simply watched, unreadable as stone, while behind that calm veneer his thoughts churned with a speed and clarity no one else would ever guess.

The figure in front of him didn't flinch. Instead, he let out a slow, easy breath and offered a small smile—gentle, teasing, almost as if amused by being asked the question at all.

"Why shouldn't I be here?" the man murmured, tilting his head. "Is it so strange for me to visit my own son?"

Victor's gaze sharpened. "Ben," he said quietly. "You're not subtle."

The man chuckled, brushing a thumb across his own jaw as though smoothing away years of worry. "You make it sound like I climb walls to spy on you."

"You did that last month."

"Only because you locked the door."

"You could knock."

"I did knock. You ignored it."

Victor exhaled through his nose, the smallest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth. He stepped aside slightly, giving the man a clear look at him under the warm torchlight.

Ben—King of the Lionheart Kingdom, monarch feared by half the continent—stood with that same relaxed stance he always slipped into around Victor. No crown. No royal robe. Just a father wearing the kind of expression you use when you're caught somewhere you shouldn't be but refuse to admit it.

Victor studied him for a heartbeat longer before speaking again, voice low and plain.

"It's late. If you wanted to see me, you could've sent someone. Why wait outside my door?"

Ben lifted his shoulders a little, playful. "I wanted to give you privacy."

Victor huffed a soft laugh and shook his head. "You overthink things."

"And you underestimate how much space a growing son needs."

"I don't need space from you," Victor replied, turning toward his door. "Come inside."

Ben's smile deepened—something warm, relieved, fatherly—and he stepped forward, following his son without hesitation.

Victor pushed the door open.

His room unfolded around them in quiet luxury. Purple and gold theme—rich, warm, and balanced without feeling gaudy. A chandelier hung above, soft light scattered through well-polished crystal. His bed was large, neatly made, sheets smoothed without a wrinkle. The windows were framed by heavy velvet drapes, tied back with braided cords. Everything in the room carried a clear signature: organized, intentional, almost impossibly clean.

Ben murmured under his breath, "You really do keep everything too tidy."

"You raised me," Victor shot back.

Ben laughed again—a low, familiar sound that hit Victor somewhere soft.

Victor gestured toward the couches near the window. "Sit. We can talk."

Ben obeyed, lowering himself onto the couch with that same composed grace he used during diplomatic meetings, though his expression stayed relaxed. Victor sat beside him—not too close, not too far—and reached toward the small silver bell resting on the table between them.

He pressed it once.

A faint hum rippled through the air, magic woven into the sound. Mechanical precision and ancient spellwork braided together into a quiet pulse that traveled through the mansion's service corridors. Somewhere beyond the walls, it would alert a maid to bring tea.

Ben raised an eyebrow. "Fancy."

"It's standard here."

"Still fancy."

Victor shrugged. "You're the one who insisted the staff spoil me."

Ben smiled without denying it.

Victor turned slightly toward him. "Now tell me why you came."

Ben met his gaze, but said nothing at first. His lips twitched, and he tilted his head as though pretending to think. "A father can't visit his own son?"

"You can," Victor said. "But that's not what this is. You don't wander palace halls at night unless something's on your mind."

Ben's smile cracked into a dry laugh—caught. "You're too sharp for your own good."

"You raised me," Victor repeated.

"Dangerously well."

Silence stretched for a moment before Victor leaned back, fingers tapping lazily against the armrest. "What is it really?"

Ben sighed, slow and heavy. Not defeated—just thoughtful.

"I came," he said quietly, "because I wanted to talk about… general things."

Victor's expression softened a little. "General?"

"Your future," Ben clarified.

Victor blinked once. "My future?"

"Yes." Ben's voice dipped into a tone he rarely used—serious, steady, heavy with meaning. "You couldn't cultivate before. You were born without the ability, and for years I… I accepted it. I hated it, but I accepted it. And now you suddenly can. That changes everything."

Victor felt a flicker in his chest—old wounds, old fears, old longings.

"And you're worried," he said.

Ben shook his head slowly. "Not worried. Just thinking." He paused. "You know how martial cultivation works. Age isn't forgiving. The older the practitioner, the harder the path."

Victor felt a flicker in his chest—old wounds, old fears, old longings.

"And you're worried," he said.

Ben shook his head slowly. "Not worried. Just thinking." He paused. "You know how martial cultivation works. Age isn't forgiving. The older the practitioner, the harder the path."

Victor nodded. "I'm aware."

"But you're talented," Ben continued. "More than talented. What happened to you changed everything. It's good news—great news, even. But it also means your path will be… different from what we expected."

Victor held his father's gaze. "I'll manage."

"I know you will. That's not the part that concerns me." Ben leaned forward slightly. "I'm thinking about what comes next. For you. For the kingdom. For—"

A sharp click cut him off.

Both men turned their heads at the exact same moment.

The door creaked open.

Their conversation froze mid-air, suspended between them with all the weight it carried, both sets of eyes narrowing toward the doorway as the silhouette of someone stepped inside—

And the chapter ends right there.

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